Stealthily he crossed the ramparts and glided down the stairs, keeping to the moon-shadowed wall.
The Cadmea was a honeycomb of buildings. Now a citadel, it had originally been the old town of Cadmos, the modern city of Thebes growing around its base. Many of the older buildings were derelict, and Parmenion shivered as he ran through deserted alleyways, feeling the ghosts of the past hovering in empty homes and gaping windows.
At the sound of marching feet, he ducked into a doorway. A rat scuttled over his bare foot and he could hear other rodents close by. Forcing himself to remain statue-still, he waited as six soldiers marched past the ancient building.
‘As weak as dog’s piss,’ muttered one of the soldiers. ‘We should saw through the beam and crush the bastards.’
‘It’s not his way,’ said another. ‘He’s probably hiding under his bed now.’
One of the men groaned and knelt by the side of the road, vomiting. Two of the others helped the stricken man to his feet. ‘Better, Andros?’
‘Fourth time tonight. My guts won’t take much more.’
The men moved away and Parmenion continued towards the west, seeking out the Governor’s residence. According to Pelopidas the old dungeons were below the building. Arimanes had his rooms on the second floor, the first being used as an eating-hall for the officers.
Parmenion waited in the shadows of the building opposite, watching for sentries, but there were none. Swiftly he ran across the open ground, entering a doorway and finding himself in a torchlit corridor. The sound of conversation came from the dining-hall.
‘Well-cooked meat is the answer to loose bowels,’ he heard a man say.
‘Not this time,’ thought Parmenion grimly. Opposite the dining-hall was another doorway, with spiral stairs leading down. He ran to it and began the descent to the dungeons. There were no torches on the stairs here, but he could see nickering light below.
Moving with care, he reached the bottom stair and risked a glance into the dimly-lit corridor beyond. To the right was
a row of dungeons, to the left a table at which sat two guards; they were dicing for copper coins. Parmenion cursed. One guard he could have silenced but, unarmed as he was, two was beyond him.
Think, man! Be a strategosl
Listening to the men as they gambled, he waited for a name to be used. He felt isolated and in danger, trapped as he was on the stairs. If anyone should come from above, he was finished.
The men gambled on. ‘You lucky pig, Mentar!’ said one of them at last.
Parmenion moved back up the spiral stairs to crouch in the darkness. ‘Mentar?’ he called. ‘Come up here!’
The man muttered an obscenity and Parmenion heard his chair scrape back across the stone floor. Mentar reached the stairs and started to run up them two at a time, but Parmenion reared up before him, smashing his fist into the man’s chin. Grabbing the soldier by the hair, Parmenion rammed his head into the wall. Mentar sagged in his arms.
Lowering the unconscious soldier to the steps, Parmenion moved back to the dungeon corridor. The second man was sitting with his back to the stairs, whistling tunelessly and rolling dice. Moving behind him, Parmenion hammered a blow to the man’s neck; the guard fell forward, his head bouncing against the table-top.
The dungeon doors were thick oak, locked by the simplest means – a wooden bar that slid across the frame. Only two of the doors were locked in this way: Polysper-chon was in the first. Parmenion entered the dungeon to find the Theban asleep; his face was bruised and bloody and the room stank of vomit and excrement. The Theban was small and Parmenion hauled him to his feet, pulling him out to the corridor.
‘No more,’ he pleaded.
‘I am here to rescue you,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘Take heart!’
‘Rescue? Have we taken the Cadmea?’
‘Not yet,’ Parmenion answered, opening the second door. Epaminondas was awake, but in an even worse state
than Polysperchon. His eyes were mere slits, his face swollen almost beyond recognition.
Parmenion helped him to the corridor, but the Theban sank to the floor, his legs unable to take his weight. In the torchlight Parmenion gazed down at his friend’s swollen limbs: the calves had been beaten with sticks.